


Special Agent Lemming

by taylor_tut



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Barton Whump, Clint Barton-centric, Gen, Hurt Clint Barton, Napping, Protective Bruce Banner, Protective Tony Stark, Sickfic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Needs Sleep, Worried Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 00:24:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14532645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A birthday request from my tumblr: Clint gets drugged on a mission and ditches medical anyway. When he collapses in front of Tony, panic ensues.





	Special Agent Lemming

Clint Barton was an expert at dodging medical.

Of course, stealth was kind of part of the whole THING he had going--the assassin thing--but even Natasha, despite being better than him (read: anyone) in nearly every other capacity, had nothing on him when it came to avoiding seeing the SHIELD doctors. 

Usually, for Clint, that meant fewer headaches. 

Ironically, he was now pretty sure he had a migraine. 

Tony, of course, was awake when he came stumbling into the tower.

“Hey, Birdie’s back,” he greeted flatly, not glancing up from the tablet he was pouring himself over.

Despite how much he wanted to just ignore this and go to sleep, something inside him had to ask. 

“Are you drinking two cups of coffee?” 

Tony glanced down--indeed, one was in his hands with a few sips left, and the other was no more than an arm’s reach away, still full and steaming.

He blinked. “Huh, I was wondering where this one got off to,” he mused, pouring the last of the coffee in his hands into the other mug and cradling that one carefully. When he finally pulled exhausted eyes up to Clint, he frowned. 

“You look like shit,” he commented.

“Likewise,” Clint returned--Tony had doubtlessly been up since Clint had left, evidenced by the fact that he hadn’t changed clothes, so it wasn’t a hollow insult.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony brushed him off, “I’m serious. Stupid question, but did you ditch medical?”

Clint rolled his eyes, which made him dizzy enough that he grabbed out for the kitchen counter. It was far away enough that he missed, and JARVIS sent a chair rolling his way, which he gratefully sat in.

“Thanks, J,” he muttered.

Tony never really worried, but Clint never really got hurt, so it worked out. He started fishing through his freezer and pulled out a few frozen strawberries, some frozen kale, and ice cubes. After tossing it in the blender with a banana, he poured the thick liquid into a glass and set it in Clint’s hands.

He stared at it, and Tony rolled his eyes, then turned back around to his cabinets. In the time it took Clint to blink his eyes--how long had they been closed? --Tony had already found and decorated his glass with a crazy straw, Clint’s favorite.

“You’re a child.”

Clint blinked sluggishly at the cup.

“What… is this?” 

“A smoothie,” Tony said slowly. “You probably haven’t eaten much, right? You’re lookin’ a little ashy. Figured you might need some potassium and some sugar.” He studied Clint’s face more closely, taking in the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the flush to his cheeks. “Though it might be a better idea to just go back to damn SHIELD medical and get actually seen by a doctor.”

Clint shook his head, which again made him dizzy enough to sway in his seat.

“Drink that, then we’ll see.”

He turned his nose up. Clint wasn’t really a fan of smoothies on a good day--they were like thick, cold baby food, he maintained--but with his stomach already rolling dangerously, it seemed even less appetizing.

He tried to set it on the counter, missed, and dropped it on the floor, where the glass shattered all over Tony’s bare feet.

“Jesus--ow!” he startled, grabbing Clint by the wrists to prevent him from reaching down to pick up the shards of glass, “no, come on. Get up, watch the glass. JARVIS, call Bruce, tell him… tell him something.”

“I’ll inform him that Mr. Barton’s internal temperature is 102 and rising, that his blood pressure and respiration are low, and that his cognition is impaired.”

Tony passed up the opportunity for the obvious joke, so Clint knew he was freaking out. “Shit,” he cursed, “you think it’s some kind of drug? Poison?”

“Not poison,” Clint denied. “Some kind’a sedative.”

Tony took a calming breath and wondered how Bruce didn’t Hulk out every time he passed this idiot in the hallway. 

“You knew you were drugged and you still evaded medical?” he demanded. Clint offered dizzy jazz hands, which Tony childishly pushed down to his sides. “What the fuck, Barton? What kind of idiot--God, Phil could train a fucking lemming to have better self-preservation skills than you.”

For some reason, Clint laughed at that, despite how irritably Tony had spit out the words. “Build ‘im a suit and maybe we can convince Coulson to make ‘im an Avenger.” 

Tony swatted him on the back of the head, then frowned at how damp his hair was, and moved his hand to his forehead with a grimace. “Fuck, you really are cooking,” he muttered. “Uh, okay. Bruce is…?”

“On his way up, after a brief detour for medical supplies,” JARVIS offered. 

“Good. You need to drink water and--” 

“I jus’ need’a sleep it off,” Clint slurred, standing, taking two aimless steps away from the couch, and collapsing into a heap on the floor. 

Tony cursed loudly as he rushed over, dropping quickly to one knee. “JARVIS?” he asked, breathing a sigh of relief when he at least found a pulse, quick but steady, in Clint’s wrist.

“Mr. Barton is dehydrated and hypotensive,” JARVIS explained. “It doesn’t appear as though the chemicals in his system are inflicting any lasting damage. The only real danger is dehydration, as with fevers from any other cause.”

Tony nodded. “What’s his temp?”

“102.6,” JARVIS replied, “rising but beginning to stabilize.” 

Clint’s eyes fluttered open, and though he was already coming round, Tony was not about to miss an opportunity to slap both his cheeks.

“Stop; m’awake,” Clint whined.

“That’s why I waited,” Tony snapped. “Get your stupid Hawk Ass on the couch. Bruce’ll be here any second.”

Upon sitting up, the vertigo returned, so Tony slid an arm around Clint’s torso and helped him up with a groan. 

“God, you’re a huge fucking idiot,” he strained, taking on most of his weight. “The worst.” He heaved Clint onto the couch unceremoniously. 

“Agreed,” Bruce interjected as the door slid open. “This is the reason SHIELD has a medical facility at all.”

“I know, I know,” Clint said. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce sighed and took the tablet Tony offered him with the vital signs JARVIS had access to from the FitBit Tony had given each of them. 

After a careful assessment, Bruce put the tablet down and fished around in his bag for some aspirin. 

“You’ll be fine,” he announced, “this time. Your vitals are looking better as time goes on, so I think you’re on the tail end of it.”

Tony nodded. “Most sedatives have pretty short half-lives, anyway,” he added. He would know--he’d been prescribed nearly all of them at some point or another for insomnia and nightmares.

Bruce rubbed at his eyes like a sleepy toddler. “I’m going back to bed,” he said, “because it’s an inhuman hour of the night.” He pointed at Tony. “Clint won’t need me to say it, ‘cause he’s almost out anyway, but you. Go to bed.”

“Will do,” he agreed.

“I mean, like, SOON,” he clarified. “I mean, like, NOW. You’ve been awake forever.”

Tony ushered him out the door with a hurried goodnight.

“He’s right, you know,” Clint said, his tone exhausted but clearer than earlier. “You should sleep more.”

Tony’s glare was ice. “Yeah, and you should go to medical when empties a syringe in your arm,” he bit, “but look where we are.”

Clint looked down at his hands but said nothing for a long moment; said nothing as Tony stood angrily and walked away; said nothing as Tony came back moments later with a blanket and tossed it at his head.

“Goodnight,” Tony barked.

“Wait,” he objected. Tony did. “I, uh--yeah. I’m an idiot. Sorry. Collapsing on your kitchen floor probably scared the shit out of you.” 

Tony flipped off the lights. “Just… look, I know ‘don’t do it again,’ isn’t advice you’re gonna take, so just--next time, warn a guy first, yeah?”

Clint nodded. “I can do that.”

When Clint woke up a few hours later, he found that the single glass of water Bruce had left on the coffee table was not enough, and when he got up to refill it, Tony was asleep at the kitchen counter. The tablet he was drooling on had two tabs open--the first was likely whatever Tony had been working on for the past few days, and the other was Clint’s vitals. 

Damn it. 

Clint picked him up gently, trying and failing not to wake him.

“Whahh--?” Tony slurred, startling when he found that none of his limbs were on the ground.

“Relax,” Clint said. “It’s just me.”

“Sleeping,” Tony said eloquently, “you should be--.”

“Thirsty, I was,” he replied, “and you should be asleep, too.”

Tony frowned. “I was.”

“We’re both gonna take a couch nap,” Clint decided, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Tony didn’t really have the energy to argue, and even if he did, the living room couch was DAMN comfortable and Clint was still just feverish enough to take the chill out of the room (Tony had made JARVIS turn up the AC when he noticed Clint was sweating.)

Clint rolled the blanket around them in what Natasha would later call an “idiot-filled cannoli” and the collective consciousness of the room’s occupants lasted another minute at most.


End file.
